Work Text:
Clark wasn’t even fully moved into Wayne Manor yet when it started happening.
He wasn’t allowed to fight crime in Gotham (except under very specific circumstances with Bruce’s explicit approval), but he did like to hang out in the Batcave as everyone was getting ready for patrol, so he could hear what everyone was working on and see them off. He especially liked the expression Bruce got on his face when Clark kissed him goodbye before he left: a contradictory mixture of happiness, because Bruce did like when Clark kissed him, and annoyance, because Clark was undermining his dark and broody image. It was hilarious.
Tim was pacing back and forth, mask in one hand and phone in the other. “Has anyone heard from Dick?” he called out into the room, where Bruce was frowning at grainy footage of Gotham’s sewers on the computer, Clark was looking over Bruce’s shoulder, and Cass was stretching. “We were supposed to work on a case together tonight, but he's not here, and I can’t get a hold of him.”
“Let me check his tracker.” Bruce exited out of the sewer footage and pulled up a map of the greater Gotham area, with six pulsing red dots: five overlapping right on top of Wayne Manor and one in Blüdhaven. Clark remembered learning that Bruce had his children (and himself, and Alfred) microchipped. Drastic measures, perhaps, but understandable considering that Bruce had implemented them in the wake of Jason’s death. Ironically, Jason was the only member of the family who didn’t have one. This was an ongoing point of contention between him and Bruce.
“It says he’s in his apartment,” Bruce said.
“He should have left there by now,” Tim replied, dialing Dick again and getting no answer. “Maybe he forgot.”
Clark looked between Tim and Bruce. “Do you guys want me to…?” he offered.
“Go for it,” Bruce said.
Clark reached out with his senses. He’d known Dick long enough that he could locate him easily. He saw the young man collapsed in bed, still wearing his work clothes, mouth open and drooling, hair a mess. He looked a bit pale, and he sounded congested. “He’s asleep,” Clark said. “He looks sick.”
That activated Bruce’s concern. Clark could already see him planning a route to Blüdhaven in his head, so Clark offered, “Do you want me to check on him?” Dick didn’t seem seriously ill, and Clark would hate for Bruce to have to take an hour out of his patrol just to calm his anxiety.
“If you don’t mind,” Bruce said. “As soon as Damian comes down, I really should get going. I’ll leave comms open.”
Minutes later, Clark was standing outside Dick’s front door, knocking repeatedly. He could break in, but not without damaging the lock, so he knocked louder. Finally, he heard Dick rousing from his deep slumber, blowing his nose fiercely into a tissue, and making his sluggish way to the door.
“What do you need?” Dick asked as the door opened. His voice came out hoarse, and he was rubbing a hand over his eyes. He both looked and sounded exhausted. “Oh, Clark. Hi. Come in.”
Clark stepped inside. Dick yawned and stretched his arms over his head, wincing when his muscles complained at the motion. His tie was half-undone, his shirt rumpled, and his pants unbelted. He was only wearing one sock. “Tim has been wondering where you were,” Clark said, concerned. “He said you had plans tonight.”
Dick’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “What time is it?” he asked, slurring his words a little.
“Eleven-fifteen.”
“Shit.” Dick held up a hand. “Wait here; I’ll suit up. You mind flying me to the Cave?”
“You shouldn’t be going out tonight. You don’t look so good.”
Dick shrugged this off. “I’m fine. It’s just a cold.”
Clark reached out and felt Dick’s forehead, then gave Dick an unamused look. “It’s not ‘just a cold.’ You’re burning up. Put some pajamas on and get back in bed.”
“You’re not my real dad,” Dick protested, smiling at his own joke. (Clark was using the term “joke” loosely. At least Dick found it funny.)
“No,” Clark agreed, “But he sent me here.”
“This case is important,” Dick said, trying to inject more life into his tone but only succeeding in making his voice crack. “I gotta get out there.”
“Tim can work on it without you until you’re better. I mean it, Dick; get back in bed.”
Dick groaned dramatically. “Fine. You’re worse than Bruce.” He turned on his heel, stumbled a little, and made his way into his bedroom, riffling through dresser drawers and pulling out a soft t-shirt and sweatpants. Clark looked away while Dick changed, though Dick had never been particularly modest.
“What did you eat today?” Clark asked, noticing a thin layer of dust over Dick’s kitchen counters as he looked around the room.
“I’m not sick to my stomach,” Dick said.
“I didn’t say you were. What did you eat?”
Dick emerged from the bedroom, hair an even bigger mess than it had been before, sticking out every which way in loose, tangled waves. He spent a worrying amount of time considering Clark’s question. “Cream cheese bagel and coffee for breakfast,” he finally said. “More coffee for lunch. I think I fell asleep before I had dinner.”
Clark had to shut his eyes for a moment to calm himself down and keep from lecturing Dick. “So all you’ve eaten today is a bagel.”
“And coffee,” Dick repeated.
“Do you have soup?”
Dick looked into the kitchen like there would be a can of soup sitting in plain sight. “Uh… no.”
Clark opened Dick’s pantry, and he had to bite back another lecture when he saw the state of it: more dust, a spider spinning a web in the back corner, a single-serving container of quick oats, a jar of peanut butter, and protein powder. “When was the last time you went to a grocery store, Dick?”
This question also took Dick way too long to answer. “Maybe three weeks ago.”
Clark sighed and closed the pantry. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
He flew back to the Manor and filled up a canvas bag of groceries. “These are for Dick,” he said when Alfred entered the room and looked at him curiously. Alfred did not require any additional explanation.
Back in Dick’s apartment, Clark started unpacking the groceries, filling Dick’s pantry and fridge. “I’m going to warm you up a can of soup, and then you’re going to eat it, and then you’re going to go to sleep,” he instructed. “Understood?”
“Okay, okay, I’m cooperating,” Dick said from where he’d waited for Clark at his kitchen table, slumped forward with his chin resting on his hand. “You don't have to force me.”
Clark withdrew a bottle of Gatorade from the bag and tossed it to Dick. Dick missed and picked it up off the floor. “Drink that,” Clark said.
Dick drank his Gatorade and ate his soup and Clark cleaned up after him, washing his dishes and recycling the empty bottle. “You’re benched until at least twenty-four hours after that fever goes away,” he warned.
“I didn’t realize being in a relationship with Bruce meant you were in charge,” Dick grumbled.
“Bruce will agree with me.”
Back in the Batcave, Clark contacted Bruce via comms. “How’s Nightwing?” Bruce asked, failing to conceal how worried he was even behind the gravelly Batman voice.
“I’m pretty sure he has the flu,” Clark said, “But he should be fine. I got some food and liquids in him, sent him to bed, and told him he’s benched until twenty-four hours after his fever goes away.”
“Thank you,” Bruce said. “He listens to you better than he listens to me.”
Clark was asleep in Bruce’s bedroom two nights later when he woke to the sound of someone pulling into the Batcave. His phone on the nightstand told him it was several hours too early for anyone to be coming back unless they’d gotten injured.
He was dressed and down in the Cave in half a second flat.
Jason was supporting Tim with one arm and pulling his helmet off with the other, dropping it on the floor next to his dormant motorcycle. Tim was weakly trying to shove Jason off of him and walk on his own. He was unsuccessful.
“What happened?” Clark asked as he watched Jason deposit Tim in a chair in the Batcave’s infirmary and tug the kid’s mask off. One look at Tim answered Clark’s question for him: He looked the same as Dick had the night before, pale and clammy.
“This little idiot went out sick,” Jason said harshly, pulling a cold bottle of water out of the Batcave’s mini fridge, handing it to Tim, and watching him drink the whole thing in two long gulps. If Clark was not mistaken, he detected a hint of concern behind Jason’s glare. “I had to save his ass. He’s lucky I was in the area.”
“I’m fine,” Tim protested, though the long, disgusting sniffle he gave afterward said otherwise. “I had it under control.”
“He was coughing on me the whole way here.”
“It’s just allergies.”
“It’s the middle of winter.”
Tim glared back at Jason. “Winter allergies. They exist. Look it up.”
Clark butted in before the two brothers could start fighting. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, feeling Tim’s forehead like he’d felt Dick’s and giving Tim the same unamused look. “Tim, you have a fever. Have you been around Dick recently?”
“We were working on a case together, remember?” Tim said.
“You must have caught what he has.” Clark took a second water bottle that Jason handed to him and gave it to Tim, who drank that too. “You need to stay home.”
Tim looked affronted. “But who’s going to work on the case?”
Clark was about to say he’d contact Barbara and see if she could assign someone to take over for Dick and Tim, but Jason beat him to the punch. “I’ll do it. Send me the details.”
Tim regarded Jason suspiciously. “You can’t kill anyone.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”
“Clark—” Tim began, and Clark knew what he was going to say. See? I have to solve this case, because if Jason does it, he’ll kill people, and you and Bruce would both hate that. Which was true. Bruce and Clark would both hate that.
“Jason won’t kill anyone,” Clark said. “Right, Jason?”
Jason engaged Clark in a brief staring match before easing up a little. “Depends who I’m going after.”
“Weapons smugglers,” Tim said.
“Fine. They can live.”
“Thank you, Jason,” Clark said.
Taking this as his cue to leave, Jason stalked away, picked his helmet up off the floor, revved his motorcycle, and drove out of the Cave.
“Did you eat three meals today?” Clark asked Tim once they were alone.
Tim hesitated. “Does coffee count?”
This family was going to be the death of Clark. “Absolutely not.”
“I had two meals.”
“At least you’re better than Dick,” Clark said. “Go shower and change. I’ll give Bruce a status update.”
While Tim made use of the Batcave’s showers, Clark called Bruce over comms. “You’re down another man. Red Robin’s sick. Red Hood brought him home.”
“Red Hood brought him?” Bruce sounded surprised. Clark had been more than a little surprised too. Hostilities between Tim and Jason had cooled significantly since Jason’s return – and especially since Tim now had another brother who he clashed with more frequently – but Jason had never gone out of his way for Tim.
“I’m looking at the footage from Red Robin’s suit cam,” Clark said. All of Bruce’s kids’ suits (again, except Jason’s) had body cameras in them that automatically uploaded their footage to the Batcave’s storage upon returning to the Cave. This meant Clark was able to watch Tim taking out a gang of armed criminals, chasing down one who got away into an alley, and nearly getting shot by the man in the dark. Tim had looked up just in time to see Jason descending on the man and unloading a single bullet into his skull. “He walked right into an alley where he knew someone was waiting with a gun. Impaired judgment from the fever, most likely. He almost got shot. Red Hood saved him.”
“Is that person dead?” Bruce asked, sounding like he was dreading the answer.
“I don’t think you need me to tell you that.”
“God damn it,” Bruce said. Then in a comparatively gentler voice, “At least Red Robin is alright.”
“Red Hood is taking over Red Robin and Nightwing’s weapons trafficking case. He promised not to kill anyone.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. Tell Red Robin—”
“He’s benched,” Clark finished for him. “I know. B, whatever Nightwing and Red Robin have, it’s seriously contagious. If you catch it—”
“I won’t.”
“If you do, I’m benching you too.”
Clark could picture the way Bruce bristled at that. “You don’t get to make those decisions.” Then, before Clark could argue with him, he added, “I won’t get sick. Take care of Red Robin.”
Tim emerged from the showers dressed in his pajamas. Clark marched him upstairs, not trusting the kid to actually go to bed. He knew Tim struggled with insomnia worse than any of the other Waynes – maybe even worse than Bruce – so he took him into the kitchen, where Alfred was somehow already waiting with a cup of chamomile tea and a NyQuil. Tim sat down and drank the tea and took the NyQuil without arguing, and then Clark saw him upstairs to bed.
“No patrol until—” Clark began, but Tim interrupted him.
“Twenty-four hours after the fever goes away,” he said, mid-yawn. “I got it.”
Clark went to Bruce’s bedroom and listened until Tim’s breathing slowed down and evened out. Only then did he let himself sink back into sleep.
Hours later, Clark was awoken again by Bruce crawling into bed behind him, putting an arm around Clark’s waist and kissing the back of his neck. He felt bad for speaking to Clark harshly over comms, Clark surmised. Usually he wasn’t this cuddly after patrol.
“Thanks,” Bruce whispered into the darkness.
“For what?” Clark asked, though he was pretty sure he knew.
“For looking after Tim.”
“Thank Jason.”
“I’ll thank both of you. At least I know you won’t yell at me for it.”
Clark chuckled softly.
Bruce’s gratitude only lasted until he woke up the next morning, with a sniffle and a cough that Clark could tell he was trying to hide. He took an extra-long, extra-hot shower and when he emerged from the bathroom, Clark was waiting, already dressed – he had to leave for work before Bruce most days – and ready for an argument.
“Bruce,” Clark said. “You can’t go to work today.”
“Why not?” Bruce asked casually, walking to his closet to put on a suit. It sounded like the hot shower had cleared his sinuses, but Clark knew the effect would only be temporary.
“You’re sick.”
“It’s nothing.” Bruce was already buttoning up one of his shirts. “I have a shareholder meeting.”
Clark walked up to him and put a hand on his forehead. He wasn’t feverish. Yet. But Clark didn’t say that, because Bruce would take it as evidence that he was clear to act as though everything was normal. “It’ll have to happen without you,” Clark said instead. “You’ll spread this to everyone else there. No one wants that.”
As Clark had suspected, the threat of other people getting sick because of Bruce’s actions was the only line of reasoning the man would listen to. He paused, then started unbuttoning his shirt with a scowl.
“Fine. If it makes you feel better, I’ll take the day off. But I’m still going out tonight.”
“We’ll see.”
When Clark came home from work later that day, the first thing he did was check everyone’s locations in the house. Bruce and Tim were in bed, which was a relief. Damian was in the Cave, practicing his aim. Alfred was in the kitchen, making tea. And Cass was in the home theater, curled up in a ball under a blanket, watching Mean Girls.
Secure in the knowledge that everyone who was sick was taking care of themselves as they should have been, Clark went to the theater to keep Cass company. (Damian, he knew, would not want company.)
Clark sat down next to Cass, leaving enough room for her to decide whether she wanted to keep some space between them or not. She was like Bruce in that way; sometimes she needed her personal bubble respected, other times she didn’t mind physical closeness, but either way, she liked being able to choose.
Today, Cass chose to lean into him, and the second her head came to rest against his side, Clark knew. He reached for the remote and paused the movie. “Cass, don’t tell me you’re sick too.”
“I’m not,” Cass insisted.
“Let me feel your forehead.”
Clark reached for her, and Cass caught him by the wrist. Clark gave her a look. “Cass,” he warned.
For several seconds, Cass stared him down, stubborn as any of her siblings (or her father, for that matter). “Fine,” she relented, releasing him.
Clark felt her forehead. He’d already felt the heat when she’d leaned against him, but this confirmed it. She was burning up.
“Go upstairs and go to sleep,” he instructed.
“Can’t sleep. Throat hurts.”
She did sound hoarse. Clark turned off the movie and stood, beckoning for Cass to follow. “I’ll make you some tea with honey. That’ll help.”
Cass followed Clark into the kitchen, moving with none of her usual grace, despite her display of quick reflexes in the theater. She, like Dick and Tim, would be useless in the field until she got better. (Bruce probably would too, but that was a battle Clark still had to fight.) She sat down at the counter and watched Clark brew a pot of peppermint tea, with lemon and honey. Alfred had taken the tea he’d been brewing upstairs to Tim and Bruce. Clark made a mental note to fly some over to Dick later.
“Were you hanging around Tim?” Clark asked as Cass sipped her tea.
“He got bored,” Cass replied.
“It’s nice of you to try to keep him entertained,” Clark told her, “But you should let me do that. Or tell him to call Conner. We can’t get sick.”
“Lucky,” Cass muttered.
Clark watched Cass finish her tea, then asked, “Have you eaten today?”
“Protein shake.”
“That was your breakfast?” Cass nodded. “What about lunch?”
“Another protein shake. It hurts to swallow food.”
Cass was very sick. She’d hidden it well, until now. “Alright,” Clark said. “You need fruits and vegetables, though. Can I make you a smoothie?”
“Okay,” Cass said.
Clark blended up some frozen fruit from the freezer and greens from the fridge, added enough sugar to make the mixture palatable, and poured a tall glass for Cass. She drank it gratefully, the cold smoothie as soothing to her throat as the hot tea.
“Finish that, then go upstairs, brush your teeth, and go to bed,” Clark instructed. “No patrol tonight.”
Cass gaped at him like he’d told her they had to put down a beloved animal. “But… I have to,” she protested.
“What you have to do is focus on getting better.” When Cass still looked mutinous, Clark added, “Don’t try to sneak out. I’ll know.”
Cass finished her smoothie and went upstairs. Clark spent the rest of his evening alone, except to bring Dick tea and interrogate him about what he’d been eating and drinking, and was he getting enough rest, did he have Advil and NyQuil and Sudafed and did he need Clark to bring him any. (“Clark. I love you. You’re making my head hurt.”)
At least Damian, down in the Batcave, still seemed to have all his usual energy. Maybe there was something to Talia’s whole “genetically perfect child” nonsense; so far the kid’s immune system was proving better than most. And Clark hadn’t heard anything from Jason, although that didn’t necessarily mean nothing was wrong with him, only that he wasn’t telling anyone else about it.
A few hours after sending Cass up to bed, Clark heard her getting up and walking around in her room. He listened carefully, and when he heard her struggling to get the window open, he was up there in a second.
“Cassandra.”
Cass was dressed in her spare Batsuit – the one Clark knew she kept in the back of her closet for just such occasions, so she could sneak out more easily – with one foot out the window when Clark caught her. She gave him an imploring look from behind her mask.
“I have to,” she said.
“Get back in bed. Now.”
“What if… something happens?”
Of course, that was always what the Waynes worried about. What if something happened and they weren’t there to stop it, because they took a few nights off for their health instead of going out onto the streets of Gotham and letting criminals beat them up in their already weakened state? (Or what if they went out with a fever and got killed because of it; what would happen to Gotham then? This was what Clark wanted to say, but didn’t. Although he had said it to Bruce in the past, when Bruce was being particularly reckless.)
“Jason and Damian are still feeling well,” Clark assured her. “You haven’t heard anything from Stephanie about her being sick, have you?”
“No.”
“And I’m sure Kate is also fine. That’s four vigilantes looking after Gotham tonight.” Five, Clark didn’t say, because if he knew Bruce, that man was definitely still going out even though he was ill, and there was nothing Clark could do about it short of physically restraining him for eight hours or hiding all his gear on the Moon. “Three more than there used to be when this city just had Bruce. It will be fine.”
Cass hesitated. “If something… really bad happens. Promise… you’ll take care of it.”
“I promise,” Clark said.
Cass finally nodded and closed the window. “Okay.”
Once Cass was in bed again and Clark had refilled her bedside glass of water so she had something to drink when she inevitably woke up with her throat still sore, he did a sweep of the house with his super senses. Tim was in bed. Alfred was getting ready for bed; he took more nights off than he used to, now that the team had Barbara as mission support.
Bruce was gone.
Clark cursed – “God fucking damn it, Bruce” – and went downstairs to check Bruce’s tracker. It was right next to Damian’s on the map, moving at high speed in the Batmobile.
Clark could have called Bruce out over comms, but that would make it easier for the man to ignore him. So he suited up and went after him.
“Batman.”
Clark had followed Bruce and Damian to a rooftop overlooking the harbor. He knew they were currently tracking down Killer Croc. There had been a string of crimes that the GCPD was attributing to him, but Bruce hadn’t been able to locate him in the sewers.
Damian turned to Clark first, hands on his hips, glaring from behind his domino mask. Bruce no longer told Clark to “get out of my city” every time Clark showed up in his Supersuit, because he now trusted Clark to respect his boundaries and not get involved unless he felt like he had to, but Damian had adopted Bruce’s old territorial attitude. Which Clark could handle. At least Damian had finally relented and given Bruce his blessing to let Clark move in with them. That had been a major win.
“You’re not allowed to be here,” Damian said.
“Batman is sick,” Clark explained. “He’s going to get you sick too.”
Damian looked up at Bruce. He sounded scandalized. “Father, is that true?”
“I’m fine,” Bruce said. His Batman voice didn’t sound quite right, though. Clark imagined it must be hell on his throat. “It’s a quiet night.”
“There’s no such thing as a ‘quiet night’ in Gotham,” Clark argued.
Bruce glared at him. “Kal,” he said. When he said this instead of “Superman,” it was the equivalent of him full-naming one of his children (“Richard” instead of “Dick,” “Timothy” instead of “Tim,” “Cassandra” instead of “Cass,” or the rare-but-deadly “Jason Peter Todd”). In other words, he was digging in his heels, refusing to concede any ground. “I am fine. I slept almost all day. And I’ve endured worse.”
That last point was less convincing than Bruce probably meant it to be. “Just because you have doesn’t mean you should.”
“I can’t get sick, Father,” Damian interjected from where he stood in between them, hands still on his hips, but now his glare was directed at Bruce instead of Clark. “Nightwing, Red Robin, and Batgirl are already sick. You need me. Who will take over if you need to stay home?”
“That won’t happen,” Bruce insisted. “I’ll be fine.”
“If anything happens to you—” Clark interjected.
“It won’t.”
Bruce wasn’t backing down. But Clark still finished his sentence. “I’ll never forgive myself.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Clark went home after that. He knew there would be no convincing Bruce. He checked that Tim and Cass were still in bed and waited in the Batcave for Bruce and Damian’s return.
The next night, Dick had gone twenty-four hours without a fever and was back in action. Jason updated everyone that he’d turned in the weapons traffickers to the police (without killing them). Tim and Cass had gotten over the worst of their illnesses but weren’t up and running yet. And Bruce was very much still sick.
He still went out, though. Of course. This time, Clark didn’t bother trying to stop him. He was a little ticked off, and a little worried, but Bruce was right about one thing: He had endured worse. Clark had seen him endure it.
The morning after, Damian stormed into Bruce’s room, furious. Clark heard him easily from where he was getting ready in the bathroom.
“I can’t believe you did this to me!” Damian shouted in a scratchy voice, which clued Clark in to what he was referring to. “Kent was right.”
Clark had recently graduated from “the alien” to “Kent.” It was a point of pride for him.
“You have no way of knowing you caught this from me,” Bruce rasped back at him. He was even grouchier than he usually was in the morning. “Everyone in this house is sick except Alfred and Clark.”
“It was you,” Damian said.
Clark stepped out of the bathroom, dressed for work. “What’s going on?”
“I have what Father has,” Damian informed him. “He gave it to me.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“My throat hurts and I can’t breathe through my nose.”
“Do you have a fever?” Clark crouched down to check Damian’s forehead. “You do. Come downstairs with me; I’ll make you some tea. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No.”
“Let’s see if Alfred’s made you something. I’m sure he has.” Clark looked up at Bruce, who was watching Clark and Damian’s interaction with something close to awe. It was, so far, the most pleasant interaction the two of them had ever had. Damian was too busy being mad at his father to be mad at Clark. “Bruce, would you like me to bring you something?”
“Father never eats breakfast,” Damian said.
“I know. But it’s important to get all your vitamins and nutrients when you’re sick. Will you drink a smoothie if I make one?” Clark asked Bruce.
“Fine,” Bruce said.
Clark took Damian downstairs, where Alfred did indeed have breakfast waiting for him. Clark made more peppermint tea and started blending a smoothie: fruit, greens, no sugar this time because Bruce avoided the stuff.
“Can I count on you to take some time off until you’re feeling well, Damian?” Clark asked as he handed Damian a teacup.
To Clark’s surprise, Damian didn’t immediately refuse. Instead, he looked torn. “Who will protect Gotham if Father and I are both sick?”
“Dick is almost back to normal. According to Cass, Stephanie is doing okay. Kate hasn’t had physical contact with any of you recently, so she should be fine. I think Jason still is too.”
Damian nodded. “If Grayson is patrolling, I suppose it might be alright.” Damian trusted Dick more than anyone, besides Bruce.
“And if you get plenty of rest, you’ll recover faster,” Clark reminded him. “And you’ll get back out there as soon as possible.”
Decision made, Damian collected his dishes, rinsed them in the sink, and put them in the dishwasher, a routine Alfred had drilled into everyone. He took Bruce’s smoothie from Clark. “I will take this upstairs to Father.”
Clark watched Damian go upstairs, take the smoothie to Bruce, and inform him that he would not be attending school nor going on patrol until his fever was gone. “Really?” Clark heard Bruce say.
“The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommends staying home with a fever, and for an additional twenty-four hours after,” Damian recited. “Really, Father, you should know this.” And then he went to his room and went to bed, Titus curling up protectively around him.
“What did you say to him to convince him to stay home?” Bruce asked Clark that evening, when Clark came home from work.
Clark had given the matter a lot of thought, trying to figure out how he’d managed to successfully wrangle Damian when he’d never been able to before, so he could replicate it in the future. “I think the key was asking him if he would stay home, instead of telling him he had to.” He must have unconsciously taken that strategy because it was the same strategy he’d learned worked best for Conner, who had similar problems with authority.
“Smart,” Bruce said.
“If only I could get it to work on you.”
Clark was still spending his nights in the Batcave. Dick and Tim were both back on duty. Cass probably only needed one more night off. Jason still hadn’t gotten sick. Neither had Alfred, for that matter.
Damian was bedridden, and Bruce should have been. But he still wasn’t listening to Clark’s pleas. Clark could tell he was getting worse. He’d gotten a fever the day before, when Damian got sick. He could barely talk, and he had a coughing fit when he tried. His movements were uncoordinated, his reactions sluggish. He was going to get hurt.
That was why Clark was in the Batcave. He’d told the rest of the active team – behind Bruce’s back – that if anything happened to Bruce, he wanted them to call him in. He didn’t care if Bruce didn’t like it. Clark didn’t like that Bruce was going out sick, so clearly everyone couldn’t always get what they wanted.
Jason contacted him around midnight. “Come in, Superman. I need an assist.”
“What happened?” Clark asked, already on his feet.
“Fear toxin, I think.”
“Are you okay? Where are you? Does Batman know your location?”
“I’m not talking about myself, dipshit. You told us to call if something happened to Batman.”
Jason hadn’t been dosed with Scarecrow’s fear toxin; Bruce had. Clark changed into his Supersuit, but before he left the Cave, Bruce’s voice came over comms.
“I’m fine. Red Hood is overreacting.” He didn’t sound fine – his voice was thin and weak – but he also didn’t sound terrified, which was a point against Jason’s fear toxin theory.
“Like hell I am,” Jason snapped. “Oracle called me and said she’d lost contact. Sent me to find him.”
“I was saving my voice,” Bruce said.
“You’re sick,” Clark said. “Come home.”
“I’m fine.”
Clark inhaled and exhaled slowly, then counted backward from ten. Bruce was really starting to get on Clark’s nerves with his self-destructive behavior. It was hard to care about someone who didn’t care about himself. “What was he like when you found him, Hood?”
“Fucking hallucinating. That’s what I’m saying; I think it’s the fear toxin.”
“It’s not the fear toxin,” Bruce said.
“Well then what else could it be, genius?”
“It’s the fever,” Clark surmised. “Batman, this is what happens when you don’t take care of yourself when you’re sick. It just gets worse.”
“I don’t need a lecture.”
Clark ignored Bruce. “He won’t let you take him home, Hood?”
“He won’t unlock the fucking Batmobile,” Jason told him. Then, to Bruce, “You’re acting like a child.”
“You’re all treating me like one,” Bruce retorted. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“Batman,” Clark said firmly. “Get in the car with Red Hood or I’ll have to come get you.”
This wasn’t a threat Clark made lightly, and Bruce knew it. After a few seconds’ hesitation, he relented. “Fine. If it’ll make you both feel better, I’ll go home early.”
“If it makes you feel better.” The excuse Bruce always had to give to allow himself to take a break. He had to make it something he was doing for someone else, never for himself.
“Let Hood drive,” Clark told him.
“Absolutely not.”
“Batman.”
“Yeah, get in the passenger seat, old man,” Jason chimed in. “You’re in so much trouble when we get there.”
Ten minutes later, the Batmobile pulled into the Cave and Jason got out of the driver’s side, pulling his helmet off. “Delivery,” he said without enthusiasm as Bruce stumbled out of the passenger side.
“Are you hurt?” Clark asked, rushing up to him.
Bruce brushed him off. “No.”
“Can you take a shower, or do you need to go straight to bed?”
“Of course I can take a shower.” Bruce stalked off toward the showers, only tripping over his feet once. Jason shook his head, watching him.
“I don’t know why I’m in charge of babysitting everyone lately,” Jason said. “Christ.”
“I know it’s annoying,” Clark commiserated, “But I appreciate you doing it anyway. Bringing back Tim the other day, and Bruce today. You probably saved them both from serious injuries.”
“Yeah, well.” Jason shifted, obviously uncomfortable. He always was, any time anyone thanked him or paid him a compliment. It contradicted his shitty self-image. “Whatever.”
“I wonder why you haven’t gotten sick,” Clark mused. For all that he could tell, Jason was fine. He sounded normal, he was moving normally.
“Who knows. Lazarus Pit bullshit, maybe. Whatever it is, I’m not complaining.” Jason looked Clark up and down. “Can you fly me back to my bike?”
After dropping Jason off where he’d left his motorcycle, Clark returned to the Batcave, where Bruce had finished showering.
“What did you see?” Clark asked him gently, curious about the “hallucinations” Jason had mentioned.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t hallucinating.” When Clark continued to look skeptical: “I may have startled at a few gunshots.”
Clark took this as Batspeak for “feverish reminders of Bruce’s parents’ deaths.” No wonder Jason had been worried. “Come on,” Clark said. “Let’s get you upstairs to bed. You need some NyQuil?”
“No.”
“I’ll get you some.”
Upstairs in their shared bedroom, Bruce finally allowed himself to display some vulnerability. He collapsed in bed with a groan and a hand over his eyes. He was actually wearing pajamas, which Clark knew by now meant he was covered in fresh bruises that he didn’t want Clark to see. Clark turned off the light.
“Stay,” Bruce said. Considering what Clark knew of Bruce’s nightmares, he could only imagine how bad the man’s fever dreams were. All he knew was that, the previous night, Bruce had woken up shaking. Clark wouldn’t leave him alone for another night of that, no matter how annoying and stubborn he’d been.
“I need to check on Cass and Damian,” he said softly. “I’ll come back after. Go to sleep.”
Bruce didn’t protest, so Clark left and crept quietly down the hall. Cass blinked open her brown eyes as soon as Clark entered her room. “Need anything?” Clark whispered into the darkness. She shook her head, then reconsidered and held up her empty water glass. Clark went downstairs, refilled it, and returned it to her.
Damian didn’t wake up when Clark entered his room. He was tossing and turning, face stuck in a perpetual frown, eyebrows drawn together. Clark didn’t know the first thing about Damian’s nightmares, but considering the boy’s upbringing, he almost certainly had them. Clark refilled his water too.
Clark checked that Tim had also returned to his room, and was sleeping; although he no longer had a fever, Tim wasn’t back to peak physical condition, and he still needed rest.
Back in Bruce’s room, Clark curled up behind Bruce, who noticeably relaxed at his presence. He hadn’t gone to sleep yet, despite what Clark had told him. “You need to thank Jason again,” Clark said.
“I will.”
“And Barbara.”
“Fine. And you, too?”
“Only if you want to.”
Bruce turned to face him. “Thank you.”
Clark smiled. “Go to sleep.”
Bruce and Damian being sick and stuck at home was infinitely worse than Tim and Cass being sick and stuck at home. Tim had slept through almost his entire illness, his body finally catching up on five years of missing sleep. And Cass had clearly been miserable, but she hadn’t complained.
Bruce, on the other hand, kept trying to get out of bed to do things: a work call he had to take part in, a lead he had to follow up on, and “No Clark, I can’t take a break from working out; we weren’t all born with six-packs.”
And Damian complained every second that he wasn’t asleep. He complained about his room being too hot, or too cold, or being hungry, or being thirsty, or being bored, or his throat hurting, or not being able to breathe through his nose, or Tim making too much noise (Tim was not making any noise), or Cass making too much noise (Cass never made any noise). Clark had to remind himself, over and over again, that the boy was only eleven and Clark needed to cut him some slack. If he’d ever been sick as a kid, he probably would have acted in much the same way.
Clark approached Alfred about the possibility of splitting the responsibilities: Alfred would cater to Damian’s needs, and Clark would cater to Bruce’s. (And Alfred would have to deal with Damian’s incessant complaining. Clark was not the perfectly selfless being that many assumed he was.) But when he found Alfred in the kitchen, he had to scratch that idea right off his list.
Alfred was cleaning up a pot of tea that he’d spilled on the counter. Alfred did not spill tea. Ever. He looked pale, and his nose was red from blowing it.
“Not you too,” Clark said.
“I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to,” Alfred intoned, his usually crisp British accent rough around the edges, like he had sandpaper in his throat.
“You’re sick.”
“I assure you, Master Clark, I am—”
“‘Fine.’” Clark finished for him. “Bullshit, Alfred; pardon my French. You should be in bed.”
Clark was starting to feel like he was living in some fucked-up version of Groundhog Day. He was fed up. Damian, of all people – the eleven-year-old! – had been the only member of the family who hadn’t put up a fight about taking some time off, and now that he had taken that time off, he was being supremely annoying about it.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Alfred finished cleaning up the tea spill and started brewing a fresh pot. “I have never been sick. I do not intend to start now.”
Clark put his head in his hands. “Is everyone in this family incapable of admitting it when they need to take a break?”
A clanging downstairs, followed by a bitten-off curse. “Not again,” Clark muttered. He gave Alfred a (hopefully) intimidating look (though if Alfred wasn’t intimidated by Bruce’s looks, he wouldn’t be intimidated by Clark’s). “We’re not finished discussing this.”
He ran down to the Batcave and found Bruce in the weight room, for the second time in two days. “Bruce, we talked about this!”
“Today I can handle it,” Bruce insisted.
“No you can’t.” Clark desperately racked his brain for some way, any way, to get Bruce to listen to him. “Bruce, if you don’t go to bed and stay there, I will walk across this cave, get out some of your Kryptonite, and hold onto it until I pass out, and then you’ll get to take care of me.” Yes, Clark was resorting to a child’s “holding my breath until my face turns blue” manipulation tactic.
Judging by the look Bruce gave him, it was effective. He set down the barbell he’d been trying to lift and walked over to Clark. “What got into you?” he asked.
“Everyone in this family refuses to take care of themselves. I had to force Dick to stay home and make him eat real food for the first time in God knows how long, then Jason had to save Tim’s life and I got to learn that Tim thinks coffee counts as a meal, then I had to promise Cass I’d personally protect Gotham if anything happened in order to get her to stay home, then Jason had to drag you here and you keep trying to get up and do shit like you’re not even sick, Damian at least stays in bed but he won’t stop complaining, and now Alfred’s sick too and I don’t know what I’m going to do to convince him to take time off, because as far as I know he never does.” Clark took a breath, realizing he’d just dumped all his grievances on Bruce in one fell swoop.
Bruce was staring at Clark with his eyebrows raised. Clark expected him to say something along the lines of “This isn’t your job” or “I never asked you to take care of me.” But Bruce didn’t. He said, simply, “I’m sorry.”
Clark blinked. “You are?”
“Of course I am. You treat my family like they’re your own. You don’t have to do that, but you do, and you always have, and it’s one of the many things I love about you. I’ve been taking it for granted lately. I’m sorry.”
“They are my family,” Clark said, his stress easily giving way under the weight of one of Bruce’s rare, unfiltered displays of emotion. “They would be even if we weren’t together.” He cracked a smile. “But, God, they have no self-preservation instincts.”
“I’m sorry for that too,” Bruce said, smiling back. “I taught them that. I didn’t mean to. But it turns out the ‘do as I say, not as I do’ method of parenting isn’t very effective.” He paused. “What can I do to make this easier for you?”
“All I need is for you to stop fighting me and let yourself rest. Please.”
“Okay. I’ll rest. Until twenty-four hours after the fever goes away. According to CDC guidance.”
“Thank you.”
“And after this is over, I’m doing something really nice for you,” Bruce added. “I haven’t decided what yet. Let me know if you have any requests.”
Clark smiled again. “I’ll let you decide. You’re good at surprises.”
Bruce followed Clark upstairs, and Clark motioned for him to continue up to their bedroom as Clark took a detour into the kitchen, where Alfred was cleaning. “Alfred, please,” Clark said, “Let me take care of this.”
“This is my job, Master Clark,” Alfred told him.
“Well, then, take a day off.”
“I do not take sick days.”
Clark was feeling a lot more patient after his conversation with Bruce. Instead of pressing the matter, he made a joke. “Do I need to launch a complaint against Bruce with the Department of Labor?”
Bruce came up behind him. “Clark’s right, Alfred,” he said in a jovial tone, putting a hand on Clark’s waist. “I could get in trouble for this. You’d better take a few days off.”
Alfred looked between the two of them and, recognizing that he was outnumbered, sighed. “I suppose this household will not fall to pieces if I take some time to recover.”
“It won’t,” Bruce promised. “Especially not with Clark here.”
That night, Clark was in the Cave again, not because he was worried about Bruce trying to sneak out, but because Tim and Cass were still feeling a little under the weather and he wanted to be available in case they needed him.
“Superman!” Tim’s voice over comms had Clark at attention. He sounded out of breath. Not like he was sick, but like he’d been running. “Are you still in charge? Who’s in charge?”
In the background of Tim’s comms channel, Clark heard Jason: “No one’s in charge; get off of me!”
“I wouldn’t say I’m ‘in charge,’” Clark said, answering Tim. “But I can help you out if there’s something you need.”
“Red Hood’s sick. Batgirl and I had to chase him down. He won’t go home.”
Clark was not ready for another one of these fights. He hoped Jason could hear how exhausted he was. “Hood. Go home.”
Jason again, over comms this time: “Fuck off. I’m not sick. I don’t get sick.”
“You made me go home,” Tim argued. “You made Batman go home.”
“If I’d known it would come back to bite me in the ass, I would’ve let that guy shoot you.”
“Superman—”
Clark intervened. Again. “Go home, Red Hood, or I’m coming to get you and bringing you here.” This was a threat he made a little more lightly with Bruce’s kids than with Bruce himself, if only because Bruce’s kids didn’t have the power to kick him out of the house or break up with him.
“I’d like to see you try,” Jason challenged him.
Clark raised an eyebrow to the empty cave. “Okay.”
“Shit,” Jason said, backtracking immediately. “Wait—”
It was too late. Clark changed into his Supersuit and flew out of the Batcave, locating Tim, Cass, and Jason in Gotham easily. Cass had Jason’s arms pinned behind his back, and Tim was sitting on his legs. All three looked up when they heard Clark land. Jason’s helmet was pressed awkwardly against the pavement.
“Nice work, you two,” Clark told Tim and Cass.
“I fucking hate this family,” Jason said to no one in particular.
“You can let him go.” Tim and Cass got up, and before Jason could make a move, Clark warned him, “Don’t try to run away. Do you need someone to take your bike home?”
“I’m not trusting any of you with my bike.”
Clark gave him a look. “You’re trusting it sitting here in an alley? In Gotham? Batman couldn’t even leave the Batmobile in an alley without you stealing the tires off of it.”
Jason was silent. Under his helmet, he was scowling like he knew Clark had a point.
“Give Batgirl your keys,” Clark said.
“Fine.” Jason tossed the keys to Cass. “If you get a single scratch on her—”
“I won’t.” Cass hopped on the motorcycle and drove away.
“You’re not seriously taking me back there,” Jason said to Clark, “there” presumably meaning Wayne Manor.
“I gave you the chance to recover at your own place. You didn’t take it. You okay on your own, Red Robin?”
“Sure am.” Tim looked immensely pleased, both at having taken down Jason (with Cass’ help, but still) and at seeing Jason get carted off to Wayne Manor just like Jason had done to him.
“Wipe that smirk off your face,” Jason snapped.
“Call me again if you need anything,” Clark told Tim. Then he picked up Jason and flew them both to the Batcave.
In the light of the Cave, Clark noticed that Jason’s black-and-red costume was significantly redder than usual. “Why are you covered in blood?” he asked, garden-variety concern for Jason’s health escalating toward panic. No one ever liked seeing Jason covered in blood. Too many traumatic memories.
Jason looked down at himself like he hadn’t even realized the blood was there. “It’s not mine.”
“Great,” Clark said sarcastically. At least he wasn’t hurt. “Go take a shower.”
While Jason was showering, Clark heard someone coming down to the Batcave. Bruce. He felt a flash of irritation; he’d been so sure that Bruce had meant it when he’d promised to stay in bed until he was well.
“What are you doing here?” Clark asked, hands on his hips. “Get back in bed.”
“I’ll go back upstairs after.” Bruce’s voice was barely a whisper. He held up his hands placatingly. “I just need you to ask Barbara to check something for me.”
Clark supposed that was acceptable. “What is it?”
“Something I saw on the sewer cams. I think I know where Killer Croc is.”
Clark pulled up the footage Bruce had been looking at of Gotham’s sewers. “Which file is it?”
“It’s from last Thursday. No, two Thursdays ago.”
Clark contacted Barbara. Oracle’s computer-generated face replaced the sewer footage on the computer screen. “Oracle, can you check the sewer footage from two Thursdays ago? Batman thought he saw—” He turned to Bruce. “What did you think you saw?”
“I don’t think it’s real footage. I think it was running on a loop.”
“He thinks it’s running on a loop,” Clark relayed.
“I’ll check on that,” Barbara said. “Two seconds.”
Two seconds later: “He’s right. It’s not the real footage. Want me to send someone to follow up on that?”
“Who should I tell her to send?” Clark asked Bruce.
“I don’t like sending any of the kids to fight Killer Croc,” Bruce admitted. “Dick, I suppose.”
“Send Nightwing.”
“That’s what I figured,” Barbara said. “Oh, by the way, am I taking Hood off the roster?”
Either Tim or Cass must have told her what happened. “Yes, please,” Clark said. “Thanks, O.”
Oracle ended the call, and Bruce asked, “Why is Jason off the roster?”
“He’s sick,” Clark told him.
“Where is he now?”
“Right here.” Jason’s voice came from behind them. Bruce and Clark both turned around to see Jason wearing a pair of borrowed pajamas from the Batcave lockers. Probably Dick’s, given that they seemed to be approximately the right size. “I thought the ‘Bat’ thing was just a gimmick; you’re not actually blind.”
“You’re staying here?” Bruce asked, shocked.
“Clark forced me.”
“Both of you need to go upstairs and go to bed,” Clark said. “Jason—”
“Cheerios with milk, a BLT with chips, a family-size bag of Skittles, and a lettuce wrap,” Jason recited. At Clark’s raised eyebrow, he said, “Tim told me you’d ask.”
“I’m glad someone in this family eats,” Clark said. Then, his brain doubling back on what Jason had listed, “A family-size bag of Skittles?”
“That’s why I had the lettuce wrap.”
Clark shook his head. It was better than a single cream cheese bagel and coffee. “Go upstairs. Do you need tea? NyQuil?”
“I’ll take a NyQuil.”
“Great.”
Clark got Jason a NyQuil and sent him up to bed. “I’m going to stay downstairs just in case anyone else needs me,” he told Bruce. “Will you be okay without me?”
“You know, I was actually dreaming about Killer Croc,” Bruce said. “That’s how I realized the footage had been doctored.”
“Well, keep dreaming solutions to cases instead of… anything else,” Clark instructed, fully aware that Bruce had no control over this. “And if you need me, I’ll be listening.”
Bruce nodded, hesitated, then added, “Thank you for bringing Jason here.”
“I trusted him to take care of himself about as well as I trust you,” Clark said with a smirk that Bruce returned.
“Good call.”
One by one, everyone recovered. Dick, Tim, and Cass were fully in the clear by the time Damian was allowed to go out again. He patrolled with Dick (“Blast from the past, huh, Dames?” Dick said good-naturedly when he came to pick Damian up, to which Damian replied, “That was last year, Grayson”) while Bruce spent a few extra days in bed, spending longer than anyone else sick because he’d pushed himself to his limits.
Alfred was back to work after three days off, and Jason spent five full days at Wayne Manor before leaving in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. Bruce was disappointed, but the fact that Jason had tolerated being in the Manor at all was a major sign of progress.
A few days after Bruce was back to work – both his day job and his side gig – he came downstairs to breakfast, where Clark was already sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the morning news on his phone. He presented Clark with an envelope, marked only with his name. Clark took it and looked at it. “It’s not my birthday,” he said.
“No,” Bruce agreed.
“It’s not our anniversary.”
“It’s not that either. Open it, Clark.”
Clark opened it. It was a bright blue Superman “thank you” card, with a cartoon version of himself on the front and the words “YOU’RE MY SUPERMAN.” He gave Bruce a look. “Dick thought it would be funny,” Bruce explained.
“Of course he did.” Inside the card, there were handwritten messages from Bruce, Alfred, and all of the kids. Clark read them and tried not to get emotional.
From Cass, a short note, as was to be expected from her: Thank you for taking care of all of us and Gotham while we were sick.
From Dick: Just so you know, I picked the card. Also, I went grocery shopping today. I bought so much stuff that you’ll probably have to come over for dinner and help me eat it. Thanks for checking on me and thanks for dating my dad. I know he sucks sometimes, but he likes you a lot, and we all like you too.
From Jason: I’m sorry Dick got you such a stupid card. Thanks for not letting my bike get stolen. I’d hate to have to adopt some random 12-year-old just because he tried to steal my tires.
From Damian: Thank you for trying to convince Father not to get me sick. It is unfortunate that he doesn’t listen to you.
From Tim: Thanks for holding down the fort, Clark. I seriously don’t know what we did before you lived here. I know that was only, like, 2 weeks ago, but it’s already way better having you around. (BTW, congrats on taming the demon child. Teach me your ways.)
From Alfred: I will admit, I recovered much faster than usual as a result of you forcing me to take time off. Perhaps you were right. As always, I appreciate your efforts in looking after Bruce and the rest of the family. We are all grateful to have you in our lives.
And finally, from Bruce, a message that looked like it had been written last by the way Bruce had to cram it into the margins around everyone else’s writing: I know I don’t tell you enough how much I appreciate you, but I hope you know it’s always true. Dick is right about everyone liking you, even Damian. And Tim is right that this house is a better place with you in it. My life is better with you in it. Always has been. I love you, Clark.
Clark looked up at Bruce. His eyes were not watering. Really. They weren’t. “I take it this means you don’t regret asking me to move in with you, even though I force you to take care of yourself?”
“I don’t regret it,” Bruce said, leaning over to kiss Clark. He lingered there for a long time, the taste of coffee on his breath. “I could never regret it.”
Later that day, when they had both gotten home from work, Bruce revealed that the card wasn’t the only nice thing he had planned for Clark to thank him for taking care of everyone. They spent the entire evening in bed together, and although Clark laughed when Bruce revealed his plans – “You know this is just as much of a reward for you as it is for me,” he told Bruce – he did end up enjoying himself. So much that he almost asked Bruce to stay home from patrol again, for much better reasons than being sick.
And though Clark would never know for sure, he strongly suspected that if he had asked, Bruce might have even said yes.